


Can't Go Over It, Can't Go Under It, Can't Go Around It, Got To Go Through It

by MimiLaRue



Series: We're Not Scared [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post Season 5, implied smut but only a teeny bit so sorry, let's all suspend disbelief about Linda letting Mickey keep that key okay?, needed to exorcise some season 5 demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3758704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimiLaRue/pseuds/MimiLaRue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ian Gallagher is good after breaking up with Mickey. Totally fine in fact -- happy to be single and unencumbered. Until he keeps running into Mickey and realizes he's maybe not so good. Until he realizes that really misses Mickey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Go Over It, Can't Go Under It, Can't Go Around It, Got To Go Through It

**Author's Note:**

> I felt a real need to smush these two Ken dolls’ faces together in my sandbox, so I wrote this. 
> 
> Many thanks to [ArtsyAfrodite](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtsyAfrodite/pseuds/ArtsyAfrodite) for beta-ing. :)

It had been three weeks.

Three weeks of no guilt, no answering to anyone. Three weeks of doing whatever the fuck he wanted without someone constantly peering over to check if he was making healthy fucking decisions. 

Over in a quiet part of Boystown, Ian had gotten a job tending bar at a dive called Rusty’s. It was only a few physical blocks from The Fairy Tale and The White Swallow but miles away in vibe. Less crazy, less coke floating around (but still there if he wanted it), way fewer dudes groping his junk (that was still there if he wanted it too). Ian liked it.

He was wiping down the bar in between customers when he looked up and did a literal double-take.

Black hair slicked back; blue eyes taking it all in like an old pro; tight, compact body casually leaning against a high-top table; soft mouth draining a beer. Ian just stared at first, because when something was so completely, 100% out-of-context – like a relaxed-looking Mickey Milkovich at a gay bar – it took a second to process it. 

But once the penny dropped, Ian had to work to suppress his grin, had to try and work up a little annoyance that Mickey was there, dogging his heels, _again_. Mickey at a gay bar looking for him – felt a little been there, done that. But Ian had to admit that his heart beat faster for few seconds when he spotted his ex. _Maybe I’ll go say hi, for old time’s sake._ But then Mickey nodded, just barely, to a guy at the other end of the room, a guy who had seemed to be intently watching a pool game. Quickly, they both headed down the long hall to the well-used, broken emergency exit that led to the alley in back. Mickey didn’t come back in, and Ian focused on wiping down that bar until it fucking _shone_.

***

Ian had just clocked in for his late shift at the bar a month later when he saw him again.

He looked up to get his first patron’s order, and there, at the same high-top he’d been at before, stood Mickey. 

_New shirt_ thought Ian automatically. _Looks good on him._ And it did. Dark blue button-down ( _sets off his eyes_ ), new jeans. Ian could admit it – Mickey looked really fucking good. From the way the guy across from Mickey was practically peeling that new shirt off with his eyes, he thought so too. Ian filled the drink order while he watched them. They were talking, having an actual conversation, so this wasn’t just a random hook-up like Ian had seen last time. _Huh._

The guy across from Mickey was tall, better-looking than average. Very apple-pie, all-American. Even from here, Ian could see that the guy had green eyes. He held back a laugh – apparently Mick had a type. Mickey, who was definitely looking back at the guy and grinning. And damn, Ian wanted a hit of that smile, just a taste. He slipped out from behind the bar. Rusty’s didn’t have table service, but tonight they were going to. 

“Can I get you guys anything?” Ian said, coming so close to their table he was almost touching it.

Mickey and Richie Cunningham both looked up at him. Mickey didn’t say a word, his face as unreadable as the goddamn Sphinx. 

“Uh, no, I think we’re good, right Mickey?”

Ian ignored the dude completely and locked eyes with Mickey. “Hey Mick.” 

Mickey nodded minutely. “Gallagher.” 

The guy looked back and forth between them for a second. “Do you guys know each other?”

Ian finally turned to the guy. “Yeah, we do. Hey, I’m Ian.” 

“Sam,” the guy said easily, and held out his hand. Mickey just tipped his beer back for a long pull.

Sam looked between Ian and Mickey, neither of whom were talking. Ian watched Mickey, Mickey watched his beer. 

“So… how do you guys know each other?” Sam said. It was perfunctory small talk, and they all knew it.

Without looking up, Mickey opened his mouth to answer ( _what would you say, Mick?_ ), but Ian cut him off. “We were in Little League together.” 

Mickey barked out a laugh. “Yeah, fucking Little League.” He slid his hand up and down the sweaty beer bottle.

Ian watched Mickey and took a deep breath. “What about you guys? How do you know each other?”

Mickey finally looked up and leveled a cool stare at Ian. “We hang out.” 

Ian got the point. Shit, he had gotten the fucking point before he even came over. He just smiled at Mickey, because, honestly, he didn’t care. He turned to Sam and asked what he did for a living, but under the table, Ian slid his foot to Mickey’s and nudged it. Tapped it gently, just in case Mickey hadn’t felt it the first time. Mickey just laughed a little under his breath and closed his eyes. When Mickey opened them, he looked up at the wrong pair of green eyes. 

“Hey Sam, I’m going to grab a smoke outside. You good in here for a few?” 

“Yeah, sure. Want me to come with?”

“Nah, I’ll be quick though.” Mickey grabbed his beer and, without looking at Ian, went out the front door. 

Ian waited about thirty seconds before following him. _If that guy is still there when Mickey comes back in, he’s either blind or an idiot._ As Ian pushed out the door, he saw the back of Mickey’s blue shirt darting around the corner to the alley and jogged a few steps to catch up. 

It took him a second to spot Mickey in a particularly dark section of the alley, where he was already unzipping, facing the wall. Ian took his shoulder and tried to spin him, manhandle Mickey a little like Ian knew he liked, kiss that soft mouth again. Damn, he’d missed this.

“What the fuck?” Mickey shook Ian off. “We both know why we’re out here, yeah?” Mickey raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t even turned all the way around from the wall. 

Ian felt a pang of disappointment but just said, “Yeah. Of course.” 

“Good,” Mickey grunted, and held up a condom over his shoulder. 

Ian paused. They’d never used one before. But Ian took it. Of course. 

 

During, Mickey’s hands lay flush against the brick wall in front of him, fingers flexing, trying to dig in with every punch of their hips. Ian took one hand off Mickey’s hip and brought it to Mickey’s hand on the wall. He snagged their fingers together, wanting to feel more of Mickey than just where they were connected. Mickey didn’t say anything, just dragged his hand away so they weren’t touching at all. Neither of them broke their rhythm. 

When they finished, Mickey pulled up his jeans. "See ya, Gallagher." He didn’t turn back in the direction of the bar. 

***

Around midnight on a slow Tuesday a few weeks later, Mickey came in the front door of Rusty’s. He looked over at the bar and caught Ian’s eye, glaring, and headed out the back emergency exit, all without breaking his angry stride. By the time Ian had followed him out, Mickey was already facing the bricks and unbuttoning his pants. Ian did the same, following Mickey’s lead, instantly hard and flashing hot at Mickey’, ass pale in the dark of the alley, roughly stroking himself. Ian reached down and discovered that Mickey had already prepped. He grabbed the condom that Mickey offered, rolled it on, and pushed in hard and fast, knowing without being told what Mickey wanted. 

As soon as Ian pulled out, Mickey fastened up his pants and strode out of the alley without a word.

Ian watched him go and wondered at the lump in his throat. His footsteps back to the bar door were loud in the empty dark.

***

Ian really needed an ice cream bar. Specifically he needed one of those Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle ice cream bars from back in the day – the kind with bubble gum eyes and a different color ice cream for the mask.

It was the first warm day after a long and nasty winter, and all he could think about was that there was no better way to celebrate spring and open windows and wearing shorts than by having one of those Ninja Turtle ice cream bars. Problem was, in early-April, warm day or not, there weren’t a whole lot of ice cream trucks out. Ian traversed his neighborhood, leap-frogging from park to park, getting further and further from home ( _one more park, that ice cream is gonna be so good, totally worth it, fucking great day for walking anyways_ ), until he stopped recognizing the street names. 

But finally – _fucking finally!_ – at the eighth park – he found one enterprising businessman who was out in his ice cream truck, selling old-school, orange-and-lime-flavored, fluorescent blue gumball-eyed, authentic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle ice cream bars. As Ian took his first bite ( _cold, ok maybe too cold for the day, but still totally worth it, gonna make this a tradition on the first warm day of the season every year, maybe we can buy them in bulk and keep them in the freezer so I could have them whenever I wanted, get Liam in on the tradition, Carl too whenever he gets back, gotta make family traditions, family is important, the most important thing_ ), he looked across the park and saw Mickey scooping Yevgeny out of one of those baby swings that look like a little basket with holes for the legs. Mickey pulled a hat down over his son’s head, both of them wearing matching disgruntled expressions. He strapped Yevgeny into a flimsy looking stroller and headed out of the park.

Ian stopped at that ice cream truck three more times over the next few weeks, even though those gumball eyes weren’t as good as he’d remembered them. He didn’t see Mickey or Yevgeny again. 

***

Ian sat out on the Gallagher stoop, enjoying a smoke, some weak sunshine, and a little bit of peace from his family’s incessant hovering and worrying. He was feeling OK today. Yes, he could tell he was on a downslide, tired and starting to get achy, but otherwise he was _fine, Jesus._

Across the street, and very much to Ian’s surprise, Mickey walked up carrying Yevgeny, heading in Ian’s general direction. 

“Hey Mick,” Ian called out around his cigarette.

“Hey,” Mickey called back in the same neutral tone, and kept going, past the Gallagher’s, straight to Kev and V’s. 

Ian couldn’t help himself. “What are you doing over here?” 

Eventually Mickey paused, nearly in front of Ian’s house. “Taking Yev back to Svetlana. I watch him sometimes when she’s at appointments or whatever.” Mickey shuffled and hitched Yevgeny up higher on his hip, but didn’t move to leave. For the first time since they broke up, Ian got a good look at Yevgeny. 

“Holy shit, he got so big!” Ian laughed, coming down the steps to the front gate to see him better.

A smile burst out on Mickey’s face. “I know, right? Dude is huge now!” He turned that smile on Yev for a second and then looked back at Ian. “Hey, watch this.” 

Mickey set Yev down gently on his feet. After a second of some precarious stabilization, Yev took a firm grip on Mickey’s thumbs and tottered several steps in a row. He chattered imperiously at Mickey the whole time. Mickey laughed at little and let the baby take a few more steps before picking him up.

Ian swung the gate open and rushed to – _To what, dumbass? To grab Yev for a hug? Kiss his soft head all over and tell him what a big guy he is?_ Instead, he just stopped abruptly at an awkward distance from Mickey and Yevgeny. “That’s amazing. He’s gonna be walking by himself any day now.”

Mickey nodded, still smiling down at his son. “Yeah, right?” He looked back up at Ian. “Anyways. Later, Gallagher.” 

“Yeah, see you, Mick.” 

Ian went inside, out of the sunshine.

***

Ian was finally up early and out of bed after what had been a pretty bad spell. Even he could admit it had been bad. He’d felt like a broken doll – a collection of parts, all his stuffing out and smothering him. Every blink and breath had felt like pushing a boulder uphill. 

But for the last few days, he’d felt – well, if not great, _better._ The aftermath of his family’s unsure looks and hesitating touches was probably the worst part, but he felt OK about that too. Like maybe they were all getting used to this. Like maybe this could be a new normal, him unmedicated, them sort of letting him do his thing. OK, yes, he’d lost his job at the bar. But he’d find a new one. Can’t keep a Gallagher down.

He was heading down the back stairs to get some coffee and see if he could fire up the laptop to do a little job searching, when he heard his name.

“How’s Ian doing?” It was Veronica. From his spot on the landing, he could see her leaning on the counter, and if he stretched, Fiona’s hands across from V, holding her coffee cup. 

“He’s good. I mean... He’s okay. Seems better this week at least.” Fiona’s hands tapped the side of the cup as Veronica waited. “I mean, he’s here, right? Where we can watch him, help him if he needs it?” Ian could see the very edge of Fiona’s shoulder rise and fall in a shrug. “I don’t ask where he goes. Once a few months ago, he was gone for ten days” _had it really been that long?_ “and I thought he’d—”

“Pulled a Monica?” The disdain in V’s voice made Ian cringe.

Fiona made a embarrassed sound. “Uh, we’re trying not to say that anymore.” She sipped her coffee. “No, we just thought he’d _left_ , but he came back chipper as anything. Then a week later he couldn’t get out of bed.” She sounded exhausted, and V reached her hand out to cover Fiona’s. “But hey,” Fiona said sniffling, “any Ian is a good Ian in my book. I’m just glad he’s here, you know?”

“For now.” V sounded unconvinced.

There was a long stretch of silence and Ian thought they were done, but then he heard Fiona whisper, “I don’t leave Liam alone with him anymore. Even moved Liam into Frank’s old room with me at night. I know Ian would never hurt him, it’s just…”

“Ian in his right mind would never hurt him. Ian when he’s high or low or thinks the spacemen are coming or that Liam can breathe under water…” V stopped when Fiona started sobbing and picked up her friend’s hand again, squeezed it. “He’d never do anything on purpose. He’s a good kid. We all know that. You’re just being careful.” 

Ian padded as softly as he could back up to the second floor, then down the front stairs and out the door.

The guilt and the shame were waves crashing in on him from different directions, and he could barely keep his head up between them. He needed to breathe. Ian didn’t know where he was going. He wasn’t walking or even running – he was _surging_ , eating up the sidewalk in big, long gulps in search of some safe place, some neutral ground, some place where he could just fucking _breathe._

He looked up at a _clang!_ and discovered that he had ended up at the back entrance of the Kash  & Grab. The reverberation of chain on pulley echoed in the narrow alley, and somehow Mickey was in front of him, locking up the gate. Mickey jumped back, clutching his chest like an old lady. Any other time, Ian would’ve laughed.

“Jesus H Christ, Gallagher! What the fuck are you doing there?”

Ian was practically panting from stress and exertion, but this mystery had to be addressed first. 

“Me? What the fuck are _you_ doing here?”

Mickey kind of grimaced and did that thing where he rubbed at his mouth when he was thinking or stalling for time. Finally he said, “I, uh, never turned in my key. When I left.” 

“Your key to the store?” Ian didn’t think he could be more surprised. 

“Yeah. And then I came back to return it a few months ago – _shut up I did_ –” Mickey interrupted himself at Ian’s look, “—and Linda let me keep it.” 

“Linda let you keep a key to the Kash and Grab,” Ian repeated dumbly. He was wrong. Linda, whose balls were bigger than Kash’s ever were, letting Mickey keep a key to her store? Most surprising thing ever in the world.

Mickey chuckled. “I know. Weird set-up, right? Said she’d let me come shopping after hours if I ever needed anything for the baby –” he held up a carton of milk and a pack of diapers, “– in exchange for me swinging by the place at off hours sometimes to keep an eye on things.” He lit a cigarette and shrugged. “I just leave some cash on the counter. It’s a pretty good set-up.” 

“No shit. Though Linda always was a sucker for babies.”

Mickey just nodded and took an extra-long drag on his cigarette. “What about you?” he exhaled, looking around the alley, littered with wilted iceberg lettuce leaves and stains of indeterminate origin. “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

Ian thought about the answer to that, now that the distraction of Mickey’s story and the urgency of his anxiety have dissipated. Thought about Linda and her baby fixation. Thought about Kash – _wow, haven’t thought about that dude in a minute_ – and how Ian had thought that he was _it_. That the bullshit drama with Kash was the best and worst and most exciting that life got. And then Ian started laughing. He laughed so hard his knees gave out and he slid down the brick wall, scraping his back where his t-shirt rode up. He thought about how easy those problems seemed now, how much he’d give to be crushing on an older, married man – or shit, even crushing on the closeted neighborhood delinquent. Those problems were finite; there could be a conclusion if certain people took certain actions. But now – now there were only on-going, open-ended problems. There were “disorders” and “treatments” other such vague terminology. There were families that were always trying, but for how long and with how much? And there were cycles of the bounciest, most electric highs and the numbest, dirtiest lows, spiraling out to infinity. 

Ian took his hands away from his face and looked down at them. They were wet with tears. He looked up at Mickey, dreading to see the pity that he was absolutely sure would be there. But Mickey was just watching him the way he’d watch a raindrop sliding down a window, like he was mildly curious to see which way Ian would go. 

Mickey stubbed out his cigarette and pulled up a milk crate to sit on. He lit another and handed it to Ian. 

“Thanks.” Ian took a drag and waited for Mickey to say something. Ask him about this hysterical breakdown, comment on how humid it’s been lately, anything. At last Mickey cleared his throat, and Ian braced himself. 

“You gonna bogart that cigarette, man? It’s my last one. I was just sharing, not giving it to you.” 

Ian snorted and handed the cigarette over to Mickey.

Before he could stop himself, he said, “Should I go back on the meds, Mick?”

Mickey’s eyebrows leapt in surprise as he inhaled. 

“Even though they make me feel like… like I’m only half here. Is that better? To be 50% of myself, like some fucking zombie, but at least my family and – people won’t think I’m…”

“Gonna run off with a baby.”

“Fuck. Yes.” Ian laughed, but it ended as a sob.

“Shit, man. I don’t know. I’m not your fucking keeper.” The unspoken tag _anymore_ hung over them like a thunderhead.

They sat in the alley for another minute, swapping the cigarette back and forth, each lost in their own heads. 

When Ian realized he’d dragged this moment out long enough and that Mickey was probably just being polite at this point, he heard Mickey clear his throat. “Before,” he said, “when we –” Mickey paused. “Before. I did a bunch of research on the meds and stuff. It can take a while to get the mix right. All the stuff I read said that most people, when they got the right balance – the right cocktail they called it, like it was a goddamn happy hour – when you get the right meds, and the right amount of them, things get pretty good. Maybe not 100%, but better than 50%.”

Mickey stood up and stubbed the cigarette out on the wall behind him, grinding it until the filter frayed. “I don’t know, man. Do whatever the fuck you want,” he said, grabbing his milk and diapers and heading out to the mouth of the alley.

“Thanks, Mick.”

Mickey didn’t turn around. Ian wasn’t even sure he’d heard him. And it was so like a scene that could’ve played out three years before – Ian looking wistfully at Mickey walking out of that greasy alley – that Ian wanted to laugh and cry all over again.

***

It wasn’t that late as Ian walked home, only midnight or so, but the streets were empty. Like, not-a-soul-to-be-found, kinda-freaky-if-he-wasn’t-so-out-of-it-from-meds _deserted_. Which was why the yelling was so noticeable. 

“Huh, douchebag? What’s that? I can’t hear you, probably because my fist” _grunt_ “is in” _grunt_ “your face.”

Ian rounded the corner and found a scene that felt paradoxically familiar and strange. Ten yards ahead of him, Iggy Milkovich held up a swarthy old guy, and a shockingly bloody-faced Mickey pulled his fist back for another hit. Ian was hit by a brief wave of nostalgia for a good fight. 

“Hey Mickey – you guys okay? You need any help?” Ian said companionably. 

That’s when Mickey turned and noticed Ian. “Oh hey, Gallagher.” He seemed genuinely glad to see Ian and smiled wide, white teeth against flushed skin. Blood covered him like he was a fucking caveman, and his blue eyes seemed to glow from the inside. 

Ian felt like someone punched the air from his chest. He vaguely heard Mickey saying something about this guy owing something to someone, but all Ian could hold on to was the smile he’d just been gifted with. That wide-open beam, full of joy. It was the same bloody, bright smile Mickey had given him on a snowy night outside the Alibi, when everything seemed possible. For that split second just now – in that genuinely happy smile that was just for Ian – everything seemed possible again. 

“Okay, see ya around, Mick. Iggy.” Ian hunched his shoulders against the wind and tried to keep his cool.

“Yeah alright, Gallagher,” called Mickey, but his attention was already back on the resigned-looking dude in front of him.

***

The meds still sucked. But he was trying to be patient. 

***

Ian left his first two bipolar support group meetings before the discussion got to him. Just got up and left. _Fucking nope._

The third one, he stayed, but when the facilitator asked him to introduce himself, he just said, “Can I talk next time?” The facilitator paused for a minute, but then nodded and Ian didn’t say anything the rest of the meeting. 

He spoke at the fourth meeting.

***

He didn’t see Mickey for months. Ian watched for him, kept an eye on Kev and V’s just in case, but nothing.

It was on his way to do a midday grocery run when he finally, literally ran into Mickey. The pizzeria on the corner had clearly just taken some pies out of the oven, because the smell of grease and sweet tomato sauce was drifting down the block. Ian hadn’t had much of an appetite lately, but the thought of a slice, folded up and stretching cheese – it sounded better than anything had in a while. He reached for the door handle to go in, and nearly bumped into a guy coming from the other direction, also grabbing for the door. 

“Oh sorry – oh. Hey,” Ian said. Sharp blue eyes stared up at him. 

“Hey. You getting a slice?” Mickey said, looking from Ian to the door and back again. 

“Was thinking about it. You?” _Shit, Ian, play it cool and stop fucking smiling like an idiot._

“Yeah, just dropped the kid off with Svet and got hungry. Kinda forget to eat when I’m running around after him.”

“You watched him for the morning?”

“Nah,” Mickey rubbed at a proud, shy grin. “I kept him overnight. First time, too.”

“That’s a big deal!” Ian said, and he couldn’t stop himself from punching Mickey on the arm. _Jesus, dude. Might as well just call him ‘brosef.'_

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded, not even trying to hide his smile anymore. He looked at the door to the pizzeria. “So…”

“So. Pizza.” More nods all around. “I mean… we could just both go in,” Ian said with a shrug. “And, you know, eat some pizza.”

“Yeah, we _could_ do that.” They both still stood there though, until Ian couldn't take it anymore. 

“Jesus Christ,” he said, yanking the door open and shoving Mickey towards the counter. “Get the fuck in there, and eat some fucking pizza at the same table as me. It’s not going to fucking kill us.”

Mickey laughed under his breath as he stumbled forward, propelled by Ian. “Yeah, yeah, alright.” 

They both gave their orders. “That’ll be $7.48,” the cashier said, looking at them expectantly.

Mickey pulled out his wallet, but Ian was already taking out a ten. Ian watched Mickey carefully as he handed it over, slowly, giving Mickey time to stop him. Mickey started to say something but then shrugged. “Fuck it. Whatever, I’ll let you buy me a piece of pizza,” he said, all cool nonchalance.

Ian beamed as he grabbed his slice from the counter. They found a table in the back and settled in to an easy silence as they ate. 

Ian felt cocky – better than he had in months. He slumped back in his chair, and let his legs splay out into Mickey’s space. “So I guess we finally went on that date, huh Mick?” 

Mickey choked, legitimately choked, on his Mount Dew. With Mickey’s eyes _that_ wide and eyebrows _that_ high, Ian wasn’t sure if he should duck for a punch or brace to be yelled at. 

But Mickey just laughed like it surprised him. 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now? No, we most certainly did not finally go on that date. This is not a _date_. And this is definitely not _that_ date, motherfucker.” Mickey shook his head, chuckling. “Fuck no,” he muttered under his breath. “This place ain’t Sizzlers.” 

Ian noticed that Mickey didn’t say that they wouldn’t _ever_ go on a date. He ripped off a piece of the crust and popped it in his mouth, chewing and smiling at the cute guy across the table from him. 

***

Ian was washing dishes when he heard the gunshots. They sounded far enough away, so Ian just kept rinsing. But then he noticed there was a fairly regular pattern to the shots. One every few seconds, maybe ten times total. And then a minute or two break, and then another regular progression of gunshots and another, longer break. It was familiar… Reminded him of something…

Then Ian realized what the sound reminded him of, and he couldn’t rinse and dry his hands fast enough. 

When Ian came strolling up to the weedy expanse under the El (after stopping half a block back to catch his breath), he was grateful Mickey was a creature of habit. Mickey had been setting up targets down here since before the abandoned building, and sure enough, he was in his old spot between the concrete beams.

“Yo Mick!” _Jesus, ‘Yo Mick’? Fucking A, Ian._

Mickey turned around and lowered his gun. “Hey Gallagher.” He sounded surprised, but not disappointed, Ian noted as he took in Mick taking him in. 

“Our house is boring as shit right now. Mind if I hang out and watch you shoot?”

Mickey shrugged and pouted noncommittally. “Free county. Just sit back and out of the way.” 

Ian took a patch of ground at Mickey’s seven o’clock, a safe distance away. Watching Mickey’s target get lit up was like catching a favorite TV show you forgot existed, and for a minute Ian was content just revel in the comfortable, familiar feeling. Plus Mickey looked fine as hell shooting that gun. But after a while, Ian got antsy to try his hand. When was the last time he’d shot a gun? Basic Training? _Unacceptable. Need to shoot a gun fucking_ now. 

He was standing up by the next time Mickey stopped to reload. "Let me try,” Ian said, holding out his hand.

Mickey hesitated and did the lip-rub thing with his thumb. 

"You're wondering if I'm going to shoot myself in the head. If I'm low. Or if I'm hypomanic and psychotic, if I'm going to shoot you or someone else because I think you're tracking my thought patterns or something." As he said it, he wondered of the times he’d run into Mickey since the break-up, how many of them had Mickey been studying Ian, wondering where he was on the cycle, how he was going to act. _Jesus, probably all of them._

Ian looked at Mickey to make sure that Mickey was watching him, really seeing him right now.

"I started taking my meds a few months ago. I'm pretty stable these days." Ian felt heat flush his face and after a while flicked his eyes down to the gravel at his feet. He was surprised to feel quite so self-conscious about telling Mickey. Shy almost.

"Good for you, Ian." Mickey's voice sounded a little rougher than it had a minute ago, but he looked at Ian like he hadn't in months – like he was proud of him.

"Yeah, well." Ian felt stupid and pleased. "So just gimme the gun."

"Fucking yes sir. Jesus, bossy." 

Ian smiled as he took the gun from Mickey. "Glock, huh?"

Mickey just shrugged smugly as he sat where Ian had just left. "When you care enough to send the very best."

Ian laughed and shook his head, turning towards target. "What the fuck does that even mean, you weirdo." He didn't wait for an answer and cocked the gun at the target. "Haven't done this in a few years," he muttered to himself. To Mickey, he said, "Call the shot."

Ian waited to hear Mickey’s direction, but instead Mickey asked, "How does it feel, on the meds?"

Ian focused on the target, but he could feel Mickey watching him. "Not bad I guess. Left shoulder." He missed. The target didn't even move. "Took a while to get the cocktail right. I stared running again a little, and that helps." 

Ian adjusted his stance and refocused. "Right shoulder." A small hole appeared an inch in on the shoulder. "I go to bed at 9 pm now like a goddamn grandma." Behind him, Mickey snorted, and Ian smiled too. "No booze and no coffee, either. That's sucks, especially in the new job."

"What new job?" Ian heard the snick of Mickey lighting a cigarette.

"Left leg." Popped the cardboard dude square in the left thigh.

"Nice one. What new job."

"Thanks. Well," _adjust stance, refocus aim_ , "I couldn't really be a bartender if I go to sleep before the bars open. So I got a job at the new coffee place that just opened. You know, the one that you and Lip shot up?"

This time Mickey fully laughed. "Please, your chicken shit brother wishes he'd had the balls to pull that trigger."

"Right leg." Complete miss. Ian couldn’t even tell where the shot went. "Yeah well, they opened anyway, and I work there full time now. Got benefits and everything. Last shot," Ian said. He turned around and looked at Mickey. Mickey stared back at him, chewing the side of his lip. Ian used to think of it as Mickey's figuring-shit-out face. "Call it,” he said, turning back to the target.

“Heart," called Mickey, and Ian could hear the smile in his voice. _Dork_. Ian almost laughed. _Please Jesus, just let me get a bullet somewhere on that damn target._

Fucking bulls-eye. 

Ian let out a breath and said a little prayer of thanks to the patron saint of not-totally-embarrassing-yourself-in-front-of-your-ex-boyfriend.

Ian walked over and handed he gun, handle first, to Mickey. He was surprised to find himself out of breath. "Thanks. That was fun,” he said, wiping his arm across his sweaty forehead. 

Mickey had his head cocked to one side and contemplated Ian as he finished the last pull on his cigarette. Finally he said, like he was fucking James Dean or something, "Anytime." It made Ian wanted to bite his own fist.

Mickey turned to go, and as he walked away, Ian thought about how people were always saying life is short. But it hadn't felt short to him for a while. It felt long, like it took forever to get from one minute to the next. And before his brain is finished with the thought, he was saying, "Hey Mick, you wanna go on that date sometime?" 

Mickey froze for a long beat, his back to Ian. When he turned back around, he studied Ian carefully. "A date? You and me, on a date?"

Was that disbelief or offense in Mickey’s voice? _Fuck it, all in or nothing._

"Yeah," Ian said, trying his best to sound confident. "I mean, we never did before, right? And I don't know, it could be fun." His voice trailed off, and he barely stopped himself from adding _or not, whatever, it's cool._

But Mickey just said, "Why?" 

Ian had been expecting Mickey to be angry or maybe charmed and flirty, if he was lucky. He had not been expecting honesty. _Well, at least I’ll have a lot to talk about in group this week._

"Because I want to do things in my life that I know make me happy," Ian said, watching Mickey. "Because I messed up," he added more softly. He barely stopped himself from taking the three steps that separate them. But the air felt heavy and charged, and Ian knew that this was it. That Mickey had to make the call now. Ian forced himself to keep watching those blue eyes, in case Mickey said _no thanks_ and walked away and this was the last chance Ian has to take him in like this. 

"Because I fucking missed you," he heard himself add, desperately searching Mickey's inscrutable expression, and he was 16 again, putting his heart on the line for this boy he had loved for as long as he could remember. 

Ian finally looked away. He didn’t want to see the moment when Mickey said no.

"Yeah, but did you miss fucking me?" Mickey said. Ian swung his eyes back to Mickey and caught him waggling his eyebrows like someone's gross uncle.

" _Did I_ \-- oh my fucking God! Are you even kidding me right now?" He leaned his head all the way back and groaned at the El tracks overhead. "I'm pouring out my goddamn heart here, Mickey, and your making with the jokes?" He laughed and shook his head. "Jesus, Mick."

Mickey’s shoulders shook as he lit another cigarette. "Calm your tits, Ian. Yeah I'll go on a date with you," he said on the exhale, all coy and smug now.

"Yeah?" 

“Yeah.”

"Okay, so it's a date." They grinned at each other dumbly from across their patch of weeds. "How about tonight?" Ian asked.

"Tonight, huh? You should play this shit more cool, Gallagher. No one likes an eager beaver." And shit, _here_ was his Mickey, all smirking red lips and angry-sea eyes. Ian thanked his stupid, broken brain for whatever he’d done to get back to him.

"I guess I just know what I want, and I don't want to wait even one more day for it," Ian said, and he hoped that Mickey knew he was talking about more than just the sex ( _though, fuck yes, the sex too_ ). "Plus, Mick, I'm pretty sure neither of us would like any kind of beaver, eager or not," Ian said with his own eyebrow waggle.

Mickey burst out laughing. "Oh my god, no. Just fucking no, Ian. _We wouldn't like any kind of beaver_." He flicked his cigarette away and slipped the gun in the waistband at his back. "Good thing you're hot as shit. If you were trying to pick me up with just that weak-ass flirting game, we would not be going out tonight."

"But since I've got a pretty face and an ass like carved marble, we are?"

Mickey couldn't seem to stop smiling even when he was clearly trying not to. "Yeah. We are," he said, walking backwards toward his house. "You can pick me up at eight." 

Ian shoved his hands in his pockets so he didn't do something dumb like start clapping like a kid on Christmas morning, but then he remembered something, and _of fucking course_ he couldn’t just go out like a normal 19-year-old. “Uh yeah, except that I’d start falling asleep about 45 minutes into our date.” He grimaced, sheepish. “Maybe earlier?” 

Mick shrugged placidly. “Alright. How bout five o’clock?” 

“But that’s in an hour.”

“If you turn into a pumpkin at nine, then we should start early, don’t you think?” 

Ian swallowed and forced himself to think of “start early” only in terms of dinner, just in case he was overestimating where Mickey saw this night going. “Okay, I’ll see you at five." 

Mickey turned in the direction of his house and walked faster. Ian called out, “You should wear that dark blue button down. Makes your eyes look nice."

Still walking, Mickey turned halfway around and shot him a look, and Ian remembered all of a sudden that Mickey blushing is a beautiful thing. 

Feeling cheeky and giddy and as high as he’d felt since he’d started his meds, Ian couldn’t help himself. He called, “I’m going to kiss the shit out of you, Mickey Milkovich!”

Mickey flipped him the bird and another blushing smirk over his shoulder as he rounded the corner. 

Ian clutched his chest like they were Cupid’s arrows themselves. He spun on his heels and ran home to get ready, legs pumping like pistons, laughing the whole way.


End file.
